Without, For, and To John H Watson
by LibraryofBakerStreet
Summary: Sherlock, who has left the army doctor back at 221b, meets with the most dangerous man in all of London.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This chapter is really short, I know. But this is my first time, so comments and reviews would be greatly appreciated!**

In the beating heart of London. Cars and people bustled on by. Lights opened up the cloudy night.

John was standing, armed with arms crossed, at the door of 221b. Concerned. Livid, really.

He had been waiting for nearly two hours, outside in the freezing London air for that smart arse Holmes. T_hat complete and utter bastard,_ John thought, _Where is he?_ _When Sherlock gets here, I swear I will send him back to his grave._ Sherlock was supposedly out on his own mission, and had told John to wait for him outside for God knows what. The army doctor's breathe was visible as he puffed out air.

Oh how the news will destroy him.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was not breathing London air. Rather the air of a criminal.

He was underground in a long, narrow passageway. Sherlock had been investigating a case of a series of murders that had taken lifes of people that had all been last seen at the airport. Most of victims were foreign and young. Innocent and unknowing. All had taken a devastating drug that causes all sorts of hallucinations.

Eerie and cold as it was, he kept walking, slowly, mind clicking and whirring like a machine with all possible outcomes of this situation. Many footprints of various sizes had scuffed the dusty floor, and most of the footprints had shown signs of jogging, as judging by their strides. No signs of blood anywhere, so death had not taken place here. Dim, tired lights hung above. Wheels of the victims' suitcases had marked the floor, a runway leading the unaware to their permanent destination.

Sherlock continued forth, feet turning as the hall did. When at last, at the end of this little stroll, a door appeared. Sherlock laid his pale fingers onto the dirty, rusty doorknob. Slowly, the door creaked. Sherlock stepped in the circular room, greeted by bloody, dead bodies lying on the ground. Men, women, and the suitcases were still, the floor covered in red. His shoes rippled the large pool of blood as he walked to the center of the room. He observed and screened the place, head turning and tilting as well as the rest of his body. A smirk crept on the detective's face.

"Well, this is most certainly going to be interesting."

A voice from the direction of the door rang out. Sherlock's head turned, only to see a familiar man in Westwood. The smirk died.

"Oh really? The same goes for me as well. Haven't seen you since the falling 'incident'. That was a bit of a blur wasn't it, with the gun and the blood and the snipers. Never mind that now. How's John?"


	2. The Dagger's Name

"Moriarty," Sherlock said under his breath,"John...H-He's fine." Sherlock's worry for John intensified. His heart began to huff and puff. Soon his mind palace will crumple from his heart's breath. A sick feeling began to bubble inside Sherlock.

"Oh, don't worry. I, or more like you, haven't done anything to your precious little pet. Well, not yet, anyways."Moriarty replied. A smile grew on his face.

_Or more like you._ The sick feeling did not leave Sherlock. Not at all.

Moriarty began to walk around the room and his shoes disturbed the stillness of the blood pool. His head cocked side to side as he talked.

"People care so much, don't they? The ordinary people, the boring people. Caring is letting others stab poison into you, and even as you're watching them, you let them. John is your poison. It's ironic, isn't it?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered as he watched Moriarty, smiling back at Sherlock like a freak. Moriarty's grin broadened.

Sherlock finally spoke. "John has saved me in ways you will never understand." He stared at his reflection on blood at his feet. _He saved me from self_ _destruction,_ he thought, _It was him._ Blurred memories rushed through his mind. _It was John_. He shook his head. He shrugged and looked back at Moriarty.

"Yeah, ironic.

"No, Sherlock. He's killing you. Killing you right now. You've risked your life several times for him. Threw yourself into a bonfire, risked getting shot by a Chinese smuggler, you would willingly take a bullet from one of my snipers for John! Even faked your death, for goodness sake! Don't you see, Sherlock?"

Moriarty turned to face Sherlock. The blood on the floor held its breath.

"You're dying."

"For John."

"And if he's goes.."

"I'll tag along."

Silence. Encasing them both in its web. Time stood still like a boulder on the edge of a cliff. Moriarty continued walking, moving the blood out of his way. Slowly, he reached into his pockets.

"Oh, Sherlock. Look at all these ordinary people. Bruised, cut up, bleeding, dead. They had loved ones; children, parents, siblings, brothers." Moriarty glared at him, and sighed. "During each of their deaths, you could see it in their eyes. The flashbacks, the memories of the poison being injected. Pathetic, right? Stupid, in fact."

Sherlock noticed how Moriarty reached his pocket. A weapon was most likely in there. A knife, perhaps. But this was most unusual. Moriarty would normally have someone else do the dirty work. But Moriarty is ever changing.

Moriarty began to unsheath his dagger discreetly. A silver name was engraved into it.

"You know, one way to get rid of all that annoying poison is cut the wound."

Moriarty swiftly took Sherlock's arm from behind and slashed his wrist with the dagger. Straight down his veins. Blood spilled everywhere. As if there wasn't enough already.

Sherlock yelled in agony, but before he could fully face Moriarty, he was stabbed right in the middle of his back.

"GAHH!", cried Sherlock. His breath was suspended. His heart was beating and beating hard against his chest, even Moriarty could hear.

"Looks like you do have a heart. Oh, well. John already poisoned that, too." Moriarty said in mock surprise. A psychotic smiled spread over his face.

Sherlock fell forward. Time slowed to watch. Vision blurred to stop and see. Old blood spattered and seeped into Sherlock's body, a terrible replacement to what blood he loss. The bouncing, rapid thoughts in Sherlock's mind stopped and settled to a dark red haze. Then black.

"Oh wait, you haven't said good-bye to John yet! What a terrible surprise! Here, your dying, that'll be your farewell. Your last farewell," Moriarty distant voice happily said."Well good-bye. Don't worry, I break the news to John. Oh how heartbroken the toy soldier will be."

Sherlock saw a blurry figure open the door. Moriarty had left the room. Sherlock was abandoned and was left to die the way he lived, the way he always was: _alone._ And he would.

Before Sherlock fell, he had caught a glimpse of the thin dagger. A silver name sat quietly on it.

It was John.


	3. Lying in Blood

It had been half an hour since Moriarty had left Sherlock to rot, who was still down. Sherlock was barely conscieous, but he was strong. He had definitely faced worse, although he was indeed in extreme pain. Sherlock's eyes and face were drained of any color. The nasty, poisonious blood on the floor stood out very much compared to Sherlock's grey face. His eyes fluttered open and red veiled his vision. Once he managed to blink most of it away, he took a look at his right arm, which was unluckily facing to floor the whole time. Which meant that the poison was coursing through his veins. A crimson gash that pulsed with purple ruled down as far as his coat would allow, so down to the middle of his forearm. _Not too bad_, Sherlock thought.

Sherlock carefully lifted his left hand and moved it to his back. His hand groped around until it found the handle. Slowly, he removed the dagger from his back. A groan left Sherlock's lips as the dagger was pulled out. Breath blew onto the bloody floor and ripples formed again. Flesh was left another hole to seal and blood was a loss again. As soon as Sherlock retrieved the red stained dagger, he examined it. "John H. Watson" was carved in cursive on the fairly new blade. Sherlock sighed. How the name calls to him now. He laid down the dagger and made an attempt to stand up.

But the blood was quickly depleting Sherlock's strength. As he tried to push himself up, he failed and easily knocked against the floor. A huge burst of pain was slammed through him. His cries echoed against the walls and back at himself. Sherlock's mouth hung open as he took heavy breaths. Not a single person would know of his pain except him. And the dead bodies around him simply did not care.

The body began to writhe around and squirm. The heart started to palpitate. The voice shrieked louder and louder no matter how useless and pathetic it was. But the mind. The mind was playing, and replaying, and rewinding all at once. Deleting, inserting, and switching things in Sherlock's hard drive. Memories were tampered. Hallucinations would start. Yet the feelings would be too real. Words and people and events past Sherlock like a fast forwarded slideshow.

Molly Hooper. Reichenbach. _Liberty and In_. Greg. The bombing. _I'll burn the heart out of you_. The Woman. Being someone's best friend. Feelings.

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._


	4. The Twisted Memories: Alone

**A/N: In case you don't know what's going on in this chapter, it's one of Sherlock's hallucinations, as explained by end of the last chapter. Just so you know, this is my first time writing a fanfic especially one like this, so I'm sorry if it's not that good. So please leave reviews, it would be appreciated. Thank you.**

The pale man was propped on a chair. Just finished with a case. A fire crackled beside him. A stiff, unused chair stared across at him. He stared back. _What do you want?_, it asked. _What can you possibly give?_, he asked back. _A seat for a friend_, it answered. The detective glared at the empty seat and looked away into the unending clutter of the room. _Friends,_ the thought was mostly ignored and glowered upon, _now why on Earth would_ _I need those things?_ The detective shook his head from the mere thought and continued to reflect on his earlier case. A case involving a cabbie with aneurysm, four serial murders, and a bottle containing poisonous pills was in charge of his mind.

Yet he couldn't resist glancing back at the chair. The same conversation replayed over and over. _A seat for a friend_, the chair would always reply.

Repeating again and again. _Friends._ Until the words beaten him.

Bruises began to form. Cuts dug deep into his flesh until they found bone. Blood was determined to escape from the poor body.

His eyes began to water. Head was in hands. His jaw began to quiver. The man stood up, head held high, trying to stay strong. The fire's orange light glowed on his face. _Come on, don't be stupid._

He walked over to his violin and gently lifted it up with a shaking hand. He took the bow with his right and dropped it once before he picked it up again. The bow softly kissed the stings, and the violin tenderly sang. But his hands began to falter.

Kissing turned to punching, and singing was followed by shrieks. Water dripped on the violin's finish. His hands stopped to work any longer.

Everything fell. The violin crashed onto the floor. The bow ran off away into the mess. Loneliness crushed the detective onto his knees. He held himself up with his arms, which took great effort. His breath began to quicken and tremble. More tears formed and fell into the deep velvet of the ground.

Darkness swirled around and stroked him. Space closed up upon him. Silence rose and covered him. The three whispered quietly. _Oh the poor man. Look_ _at him. His heart can't catch up to his mind. _

"I'm so lost. And alone. And confused." The detective mumbled."And there is no one to save me."

The man was breaking and nobody saw.


	5. Back to Baker Street: Hope

**A/N: I know, I know, this chapter is really short, but it's crucial(At least I think it is.) Anywhosies, please leave reviews as it will be greatly appreciated. Thank you!**

While Sherlock was hallucinating like the madman he is, John was still standing at the door of 221b. He was still waiting for Sherlock when he would come back, that is if Sherlock does come back.

Although at this rate, John would be waiting forever.

John's eyelids began to droop as he got drowsy, for it was nearly midnight, it was no wonder John was getting sleepy. The windy weather didn't help him either. In fact, because of this, he was seriously considering going back inside in the cozy, warm flat. But John's faith in Sherlock was strong, as it will always will be.


	6. TTM: He Take My Place, John Would Fall

**Sorry that the last chapter was terrible, I do apologize. Please forgive me.**

Back to Sherlock.

The damaged memories were causing pain to Sherlock. Tampered scenarioes were playing in Sherlock's head. Even if it was all in Sherlock's mind, the pain would be real. One scenario had already played, and this was the next.

A flash of light burst in Sherlock's mind. His body writhed and turned. Another dream played.

John stood petrified on the rooftop of St. Bartholomews Hospital. He wasn't clever, he wasn't Sherlock. But it was him who had to fall. He was the one who had to die, or else Mary, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock get shot by a sniper. Everyone you love will die, if you don't, dearest Watson. Moriarty's threat ringing and biting at John's ears. Why me?, John thought, Why must I be sacrificed?

John peeked over his shoulder. A dead Moriarty holding a gun was on the floor, wearing a crown of red. John looked back to the city of London. So peaceful and calm it was, he hated it. Nothing could save him from this horrible, cruel twist of fate. There was no homeless network, no Mycroft, no anything to save him. But he had to do it. For Mrs. Hudson. For Mary. For Sherlock.

He triapsed to the ledge of the building. This was it. This would be the end of him.

John took deep breaths and shut his watering eyes hard while pursing his lips. Sorrow, anger, and fear bubbled and swirled in him. He reluctantly opened his eyes. Beads of tears stuck to his eyelashes. He clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms. John stared down on the road. A black cab pulled up to the road. John took his phone and called Sherlock as John saw him get out the cab. _ Pull yourself together, John, He thought, It'll be over soon._ Sherlock answered his cell.

"Sherlock. I'm up on the building in front of you."

"What? Why?", Sherlock saw at the tiny figure on top of the hospital. His eyes widened in terror. "Oh, no. No. No. No. . NO!" He sprinted to the sidewalk by the hospital, right in front of John."Wha-How-Who-Why, John, Why?!" Sherlock was beyond terrified. His breathe began to quicken.

"Sherlock, Sherlock! Calm down. Please. Listen, Moriarty trapped me up here and now if I don't commit suicide, you, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson will die."said John as clearly and coolly as he could. _You have to be strong, for him, John. Be strong, damnit! Come on! But being collective about death wasn't exactly the easiest thing to do._

"John, please, don't! You're all I have! I can't lose you. Please! John! You're my only friend. Stop it, now! Stop this. There has to be another way." Sherlock was on edge. He was right; John was his only friend.

John peered down at Sherlock. I'm sorry, he wanted to say, I'm sorry that I have to put you through all this pain, I'm sorry, but he couldn't bring himself to say it.

Both seemed to be on the verge of tears.

"Please."

John's hand began to shake. So did his voice. "Sherlock, you have to stop. Sherlock, do this, for me. Tell Mary that I love her, and that I always will even after death. Tell her that she was one of the two people that I care and love most about in the world. Tell Mrs. Hudson that if she never here, I would have never met the greatest man in the world. You were right. If Mrs. Hudson had ever left, England would really have definitely fell. I would have." A small, feeble laugh came up from John.

Only more guilt and pain devoured Sherlock.

"Listen, Sherlock, with all the time we have left, hearing each other's voices, before I, you know, I, uh, I want to tell you this. Throughout all the times we've walked together, I've always wondered of the danger that overhung the both of us. But I knew that we protected each other as we drifted back towards trouble. We're intertwined, the two of us. And.. I was alone and depressed, and you've saved me from death. Perhaps you may say the same, I don't know. One thing's for sure, though, as you have saved me, I shall, and will, return the favor.

"Oh, and one last favor: Please be strong, for Mary, for Mrs. Hudson, for me, Sherlock. Will you do that for me?"

"John." Sherlock's small and afraid voice came out. He closed his eyes in pain and looked back at his friend. For once the well-spoken detective was at a lost for words.

"All of this, Sherlock, all of it is for the people I love. It's not out of selfishness or hatred or any of those sort of ideas."

Sherlock was paralyzed on the sidewalk. "I 've always known that, but please.."

"Sherlock, it will be okay. We'll be alright." It was a lie.

Of course it was.

'A sad smile came on John's lips. His voice had cracked as he said his final words.

"Good-bye... Sherlock."

Tears rained onto the concrete, both John's and Sherlock's.

John threw away his phone. He spread out his arms and as well as his enormous white wings. He took one last breath. One last second.

Off the ledge.

He flew towards the ground.

"JOHN!"

John's body met the concrete.

The blood seem to splash everywhere. So much blood in one soldier. Too much.

Sherlock's stomach began to twist and turn as he stood horrified at the man at his feet. Blood ran along his hairline and onto the ground.

Reminants of the sad smile was still on John's face. Broken pieces of life was still in him. One last thought played out on John's tape, For you, Sherlock, the person I love and care about most in the world. His one last punchline.

Then the brilliant wings gently carried the tired soldier's soul up to the sunny and clear sky.

Sherlock dropped to the floor besides the dead Watson, sobbing. Streams of clear flowed down his face and onto John. He shook the poor man in his arms. Sherlock's lost voice now spoke up and thundered.

"J-John. No. JOHN. P-Please. Be a-alive. PLEASE John, J-John. JOHN. PLEASE. NO, oh no, God no. "

It was no use. There was no reason for John to suddenly regain life again. Sherlock had to fight the pain.

Soon enough, people began to enshroud the place of sorrow, of death, of loss. They tried to cast their thick ropes had pull Sherlock away, but he ripped them apart as if they were spiderwebs.

Sherlock quickly talked to the dead body again."John, I'm sorry. Can you hear me? I'm sorry. For every single stupid word, every arrogant action of mine, every single trick. See? See, John? Don't you see? I learned much from you. You taught me of love, and caring, of humanity. You taught me to see past the lines of people. "

You helped me to see the colors of humans. Your colors were beautiful. No word of any prosaic language could describe your colors."

John never heard Sherlock's words.

His voice began to crack, mind was alike.

"You were the best and the wisest man that I've ever had the good fortune of knowing. Don't you remember? Remember the speech I gave? When you were getting married? John? And when..." Sherlock slowed. He layed down on John and buried himself John's chest. It was warm. He closed his eyes. Sherlock needed warmth. Especially from the cold fact that his only friend in the world was dead.

"John." Sherlock's voice was muffled by John's jacket."I need you. Don't leave me. Please. I am the one who owes you so much. I was alone. So alone. And I don't want to go back."

Sherlock's eyes began close. Rushes of dull colors softly lifted him up and carried him.

He saw another color on the cement, only it was brilliant unlike the others. John. It must be nice laying on the floor, what a nice place to sleep. I would definitely join him. Back and forth, Sherlock swayed. A long fissure broke open down his mind. Logic began to pour out of it.

Sherlock turned what was left of his attention to the sky. The edge of Sherlock's vision started to darken. _The sky is so black today. What a lovely place to be. How lovely. How lucky John is to be there._

_John. _

_John._

_Wait. _

_John!_

Sherlock fought against the blurry colors to go run back, but he was too weak. He had stumbled along the way. The colors ran with him.

"John! Don't worry! I'm- coming- to- help- you!"

Too late. Much too late.

The many arms retrieved Sherlock away. His head had leaned forwards as he was taken. Drops of despair were falling.

"No, stop! He's my friend! He's my friend! Stop! Stop.."

They didn't. Sherlock struggled against their ropes but it was no use. He tried to reach out, but grabbed nothingness.

"NO! JOHN! JOHN!.." Sherlock shrieked even harder, for all the world to hear.

_No._

_Stop it._

_John needs me._

_I'm his friend._


End file.
